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Darius Rindel arrived with a particularly delightful specimen for the meat market. Weighing about 18 pounds, and tender as the best venison, its pink flesh smooth and soft, it would fetch a fair price. This would be his fourth sale of the pricest flesh, and his last for eighteen months at least. But the money would subsidize the life to which he had become accustomed for four months more than the next delivery. This was something! The first time he and what was left of his family would have no financial cares. It was good luck that the beast had matured just as fashion week approached. He entered the building. It seemed less glamorous than previous entries: he noticed the moldings were chipped--they were polystyrene, not plaster. And the marble floor seemed out of place with the bright red fire door that faced the main entrance. And there was no security desk, no concierge. And the rug that crossed the floor all the way to the lift, the rug that once felt like a red carpet leading to his first three victories, was standard-issue gray, and smelled of wet mop. It was a meat-market, what was he to expect? Other ones didn't even pretend to be anything other than they were: carcasses greeted you the minute you entered the building, usually through a sliding door. This place was different--and if the slight disappointment in the fake scenery smarted, then what were the others compared to this? Rindel stepped into the lift with a woman in a beige pantsuit. She looked at his package. "Aye, it'ul mak us a petty penny," said Rindell, "fa that ahm sho, nor it's a rar un." The woman smiled obliquely and hurried off in her lycra pant suit at the second floor. Rindell stepped out of the lift at the fourth and proceeded to the market. He was surprised at how small it seemed this time. He was greeted by the same sour tart as every other time, who gestured him past the framed certificates of excellence, and the beautifully preserved specimins hung in the fashionable RANDOM style along the dank corridor. "What do you have for us this time, Riddel," asked Mr. Japes, taking some quick shots with his camera. "A fine specumin indeed sir," said Rindel, smarting in his rough skin at the mispronunciation of his name. "Well bring it over, bring it over," said the thin and bespectacled connoisseur. Rindel brought the specimin over, and sat as Japes took his microscope, and examined the specimin inch by inch. "Yes," said Jakes, "this is very fine. Very fine indeed Mr. Riddle." Darius Rindel walked out of the building eighteen pounds lighter with a fat envelope stuffed into his shell-suit jacket. Mrs Rindel was already beginning to fatten. He licked his chops and stroked his beard ravenously.

Date Written: February 02, 2006
Author: William Asp
Average Vote: 3

02/3/2006 Will Disney: what was it again that he was selling? right?
02/3/2006 Mr. Pony: I think this short cries out for a fair bit of discussion. Who would like to begin?
02/3/2006 qualcomm: i'unno. what the hell effect is this thing going for? funny? creepy? surprising? it wasn't really any of those. am i missing something? nah.
02/3/2006 scoop: I for one would like to know more about the construction and functioning of the meat market. Why is there no concierge? Budgetary concerns? Was there a concierge but he was fired? If so, where is he now? What does he dream? What design challenge led to the decision to go with the polystyrene instead of the plaster? Where was the marble mined? Is it Milky White, Ek-potiya White or Figurative White?
02/3/2006 William Asp (3): I think the thing didn't know where to go. scoop's comments are deranged & would have made the thing even more terminable. RE: the most boring story of the year.
02/3/2006 TheBuyer: Sure, selling babies is bad but have they ever aborted a foetus so they could use it as a fucking condom?
02/3/2006 Litcube: Are we talking cows or babies, here.
02/3/2006 Litcube: ?
02/3/2006 TheBuyer: Has to be babies. Who marries a cow?